She shuffled along with me, not quite believing we were going in first class, but finally accepting it when we were seated in the second row. First class wasn’t all that spectacular on a 727, but I had the money.
Actually, I had a fair bit of money. My portfolio was now between a million-and-a-half and two million bucks. Just because the economy was sucky didn’t mean you couldn’t make some money. There is just as much money to be made on the down side as the up. By the winter of ’74-’75, the American economy was in turmoil. Nixon had resigned in disgrace and Ford, his replacement, was under a major cloud because he pardoned Nixon. The oil shock from last year had eased, but people were still getting used to gas prices they couldn’t afford, and unemployment and inflation were both rising. The rest of the decade, including Jimmy Carter’s none too glorious term, were not easy on most people. I was invested in a variety of inflation indexed and recession resistant stocks. My next big play wouldn’t be until after I graduated, but I was rich enough that I bought myself a Rolex Oyster Perpetual, in stainless steel, for my birthday. Fuck it, Happy Birthday to me! I was also thinking about replacing the rusty Galaxie.
First class sure beat the hell out of peasant class in the back. The seats were leather, extra wide and far enough apart you had legroom and the ability to recline, and they were only four across. Sardine class packed them in six across, and if you didn’t sit bolt upright you couldn’t move your legs.
First class is nice, and not just because you get to lord it over the lesser beings flying in the back. The seats alone are worth the extra expense, but in first class you got real food and real drinks — for free! By the time I recycled the flight attendants were issued cash registers and sold you everything from your food and drinks to pillows and blankets, and even the bathrooms were pay toilets. I swear that if the plane was falling out of the sky, they were instructed to make you pay to use the oxygen masks that fell from the overheads.
In 1974, first class passengers were promptly served a Danish and juice or coffee, and on a real plate and a real cup or glass. The flight was only an hour long, but as soon as we got up, a first class only flight attendant was serving us. Marilyn was impressed. “Ever flown before?” I asked her.
“Yes. A couple of years ago my class went to France on a school trip. We were gone for two weeks,” she answered.
“Really! We were lucky if they loaded us on a bus and took us to a museum. Did your brothers go when it was their turn?”
She shook her head. “They didn’t do that at Notre Dame, only UCA.”
I hadn’t been entirely clear on that before anyway, so I asked her to clarify. In Utica, at the time, there were several parochial elementary and junior high schools, but really only two high schools. The younger grades were coed, but the high schools weren’t. UCA was the girl’s school and Notre Dame was the boy’s school. Long before Ruth got to that age, UCA was shut down, and everything was combined at Notre Dame. All of Marilyn’s brothers and sisters went to Notre Dame. Apparently only UCA did the trip to France.
“Learn anything?” I asked.
She grinned at me. “I learned I didn’t want to go to any more museums or cathedrals in France!” Bless her sweet heart, but Marilyn is not the intellectual type. I’d have killed for the opportunity! “Have you ever flown?” she asked me.
I nodded “Back when I was ten, my father had to fly out to Pittsburgh, for his company, and they were taking this little propeller driven puddle jumper, and he asked if I wanted to fly with him. It was the summer, and I said, ‘Sure!’ Boy, did Hamilton throw a fit over that! Anyway, we never left sight of the ground, and that little sucker bounced all over the sky. On the trip back, there was some turbulence and the pilot announced we were going to fly a little lower, and I told him to land on the highway and taxi home!”
We both had a laugh over that, and by the time we were done talking about our flight experience, we were descending into JFK. We were right on time (another difference from the future) and I led the way through the airport to American Airlines. Back then you had to get your boarding pass at each airline; you couldn’t get them all at the same time up front. The computer technology just didn’t exist yet.
The cat was out of the bag as soon as I handed the ticket agent our tickets. I had done all this through a travel agent in Troy this fall, and had arranged the flights and the hotel room. The agent looked at my tickets and said, “That’ll be two first class tickets to Las Vegas, correct?”
Marilyn gasped. “Las Vegas!”
I grinned at her. “You bet!”
“Literally,” agreed the ticket agent.
“You said we were going to the beach,” she said accusingly.
“I said we were going somewhere you’d be able to wear a really small bikini. It’s not exactly the same thing.”
“Like where!?”
I smiled. “Well, Ellie Mae, you and the rest of the Clampetts will just have to make do out at the cement pond!”
“You’re not funny.” She stuck her tongue out at me, so I laughed and hugged her to my side, and we took our boarding passes and continued on. We had about an hour between flights, and had to change concourses, so we didn’t actually have a lot of time to waste. By the time we got to our gate, we only had fifteen minutes before they called for first class passengers to board.
“First class again?” she said as we went on board.
“Only the best for the woman I love!” I answered theatrically.
She eyed the large seats, and then looked back through the curtain to where the sardines were packed. “Well, maybe I’ll forgive you for lying to me.”
“Not lying, misdirecting,” I clarified.
“Hmmpphhh.”
I just smiled at that. The flight was four hours long, and although I think flying generally sucks, it sucks a whole lot less when you’re sitting up front. We had a real lunch served to us on plates when the people in the back got a sandwich, and while everyone could get a drink, ours were free. As soon as we were aloft and the stewardess started with beverage service, I asked her, “I know it’s kind of early, but is there any chance we can get a couple of mimosas?”
The stewardess smiled when Marilyn asked what that was. “Champagne and orange juice.” Marilyn’s eyes popped out at that. “I think we can manage that.” She pulled out a split of champagne and made the drinks right there in the cart for us. “Honeymoon?”
I replied, “Practice run.” The flight attendant laughed and Marilyn squealed in outrage. I laughed and thanked the girl, and toasted Marilyn. “Here’s to lots and lots of practice.”
Marilyn laughed at that and we clinked glasses. “So, what are we going to Las Vegas for? I didn’t know you gambled.”
“I almost never gamble. Remember those classes on probability and statistics?” She nodded and I said, “I actually paid attention.”
“Well, why then?”
“Marilyn, there is a lot more to do in Vegas than gamble. Hell, it’s known as Sin City! If you can’t do it in Vegas, you probably don’t want to do it.”
“Really?”
“Babe, when Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed, the survivors sold the franchise rights to Las Vegas.”
“Well, what will we do if we’re not gambling?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe take in some shows, go swimming, see the sights, watch the suckers lose their shirts, and practice,” I answered.
Marilyn blushed at that. “Carling!”
I lowered my voice as I leaned in. “I intend to use you for my sexual gratification, all day and all night long, over and over and over again.”
Marilyn reddened again, but it was more of a flush than a blush, and I could tell her breathing picked up. “I think you’re full of talk,” she challenged me.